


there is no such thing as discovery

by myssyx



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst and Introspection, Character Study, Coming of Age, Goth Allura, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Trans Lance (Voltron), character death is keith's dad btw pls dont be scared, this was just a whole lotta vibes that i threw together into a burning pile of fuckery, why the fuck is that not a tag that's illegal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28811130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myssyx/pseuds/myssyx
Summary: Here is the figure of a boy: seventeen years old and older than stardust, cut from desert sand turned molten jagged glass. Don’t cut yourself on the edges. He warned you.Here is the truth: you cannot run from fire.Or: small town au. Keith tries to find himself, and learns not to burn. He also learns to fall in love.
Relationships: Allura & Keith (Voltron), Allura & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	1. i. ashes

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i do not live in a small town. i just think the vibes are... not neat, but fitting. i do, however, know all about love, so that's what this is coming from baby!

There’s a water stain on the ceiling and it looks like a wolf. It’s the most interesting thing in the Chemistry classroom, and Keith could get higher marks writing a report on the shadow than he could on what’s being taught right now — something about the equilibrium constant or whatever. Not that he’s paying attention. It’s fine, he’ll just catch up later. 

When the bell rings to interrupt his thoughts, his bag is already packed and he’s out the door. If he’d let himself pause, he’d notice the following gaze of a brown-haired boy.

But Keith never pauses.

* * *

Here is the figure of a boy: seventeen years old and older than stardust, cut from desert sand turned molten jagged glass. Don’t cut yourself on the edges. He warned you.

When he holds his fists to the sun to shadow his face, he tells himself that this is the stance of a warrior. Square your shoulders and cross your wrists. He tells himself he is not hiding, that he scraped the word defence from his vocabulary at the tender age of nine and never looked back. This is his offensive — another lie. 

Here is the truth: you cannot run from fire. 

* * *

Keith pulls on his scratchy work uniform and ties up his hair, still greasy because he hasn’t washed it since last week. His manager doesn’t say anything to him unless he needs to switch a shift and that’s how they both like it — Kolivan operates in grunts and silence and Keith can’t communicate at all to save his life.

It’s the last job he wants, working graveyard shifts at the grocery store straight after school, but it pays the bills and he’d rather be earning cash than moping around at the shack doing nothing. The worst part about it is the customers.

“Ma’am. For the last time, we do not have any more almond milk. We will be restocking next week,” he says dryly, resting bitch face in full effect as the fuming woman in front of the counter sputters out another round of complaints. She’s hissing about his customer service skills now, which is typical for him. _Take a number,_ he wants to say. _There are other people in the line that’d like to have a word about me to management as well, asshole_.

Luckily, the assistant manager on duty is Acxa, and she couldn’t give a flying fuck about what people say about him. He’s the only employee who actually doesn’t mind restocking the shelves because he likes the silence and space.

By the time the woman finishes yelling and the next guy rolls up to finally put his items on the line, he’s reached his quota of social interaction. If this guy wants to talk, he’s pulling a Kolivan.

“Sorry about that — that looked painful to deal with. Long day, huh?”

Something about his voice sounds familiar, and Keith makes the effort to properly look at him. Okay, the guy’s pretty attractive — brown curls and matching coffee golden eyes, with freckles to boot. He’s wearing a well fitted blue t-shirt.

Keith doesn’t mean to answer the question, but it’s like instinct the way the words stumble out of his throat, which is — strange.

“Uh, yeah.”

Like he wasn’t expecting any answer, the boy grins, and _shit that’s a gorgeous smile_.

“It’s Keith, right?”

“How — what, how do you know my name?”

The attractive boy raises an eyebrow and smirks, and it raises alarming deja vu bells in him but he pushes it aside in his confusion.

“Nametag. Also, we’re in the same Chemistry and English class at school.”

“We are?”

At that, the boy’s smile dips, but comes back so quickly you wouldn’t have known to miss it.

Keith doesn’t remember anyone from his classes. He’s either trying to block every nonsense word that spills out of his teachers’ mouths or drawing in his sketchbook. On the rare occasion, he actually pays attention. Can’t risk getting kicked out; it’s already happened twice and he’s in his senior year.

“Yeah. I’m Lance? Lance McClain?”

“Uhhh.”

“You know, classic class comedian? I’m second in Chemistry, but only cos’ you’re the one beating me.”

He feels guilty, for whatever reason. In his head, he should remember him. At least someone like him.

“I’m… sorry?” he offers. The smile turns strained, but it holds because it’s the only thing sustaining this god awful interaction. 

“It’s alright. Anyways, I’m just checking these things out, if that’s fine by you.”

Oh yeah. He has a job.

“Right. Sorry.”

Why is he apologising so much? It’s not like he owes the guy anything, even if he feels like he should.

Keith scans the pads and chocolate bars and crinkles the bag when he puts them in. When Lance hands over the cash, their fingers brush and he pretends he doesn’t feel sparks of electricity. The receipt prints and he shoves it in.

“Thanks, Keith. See you in class tomorrow!” Lance waves cheerfully and heads out, the only reminder that whatever happened was actually real being the swish of the sliding doors as they open and close.

Belatedly, Keith replies, “You too.”

The rest of his shift is easy, like it’s taking pity on him. He doesn’t know how to feel.

* * *

He’s nine, etching his imagination onto the school’s pavement with cheap chalk when it happens. His dad’s late again, which is normal since fire is unpredictable and the station is understaffed.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Keith only lets his dad call him that and whoever said that definitely isn’t him.

The woman in front of him has the weirdest smile he’s ever seen — like a crudely bent piece of metal, all wobbly yet stiff at the same time.

“You’re not my dad.”

The smile drops.

“Right.” She’s uncomfortable, he can tell. “You’re Keith, aren’t you? Keith Kogane?”

“Yeah.”

Her eye contact flickers like a candle flame and it’s very irritating. He would know — hours of reading by candlelight at night when the electricity is down has taught him so. 

She clears her throat, scratchy.

“I’m Ms Lee. But you can call me Julie. I’m a social worker,” she explains, like that means anything to Keith.

“Okay.”

“Let’s go on a walk, shall we?” gesturing vaguely at the office.

“I don’t want to. I don’t even know you.”

Ms Lee’s (he’s definitely not calling her Jenny or whatever) crowbar smile twists further into a wince.

“It’s not an option. I’m sorry.”

Keith grumbles but follows along petulantly. Where’s his dad? He should be here by now, even with the late allowance.

When he gets to the office, they don’t even stop to greet the receptionists, which he thinks is quite rude since all visitors are meant to report to the office and intruding into someone’s house is, well — rude.

With a not so gentle push at his back, he stumbles into the principal’s office. It’s all dark wood and ugly rugs.

“Oh, Keith, you’re here,” says Mr Watts, the principal. What is up today with strange adults calling him as if they’re his friends? 

“Why am I in the office?” he bluntly asks.

Mr Watts and Ms Lee share a look he can’t figure out, and the both of them sit down, Mr Watts in his cushy looking chair behind the desk and Ms Lee into an armchair with the worst green and orange print he’s ever seen. They don’t answer his question.

“Keith,” Mr Watts begins, his glasses shifting in the light from the late afternoon sun, and argh, can they stop saying his name? He knows who he is, he’s not stupid.

“Why don’t you have a seat?”

“I don’t want to.”

Ms Lee interrupts, voice like whining glass. “I think it’s best if you sit down for this. We need to tell you something very important.”

“I said I don’t want to.” 

Irritation.

He straightens up his posture to try to look more intimidating, or perhaps more confident.

“That’s… fine then,” rasps Mr Watts. “Julie,” he says in an adult voice, something clearly not meant for him to pay attention to, “I’m not sure how to… tell him. I’ve never done this before, and I surely didn’t expect to one day. I’m sorry, but would you mind…” 

Tell him what? He’s still in the room, he wants to shout. He’s not invisible, Keith scoffs internally.

Ms Lee winces, but musters up the briefest of placating smiles.

“I understand. It’s difficult for everyone. I just thought since you know him better than I do, well…”

“I apologise. I just don’t think I can.”

“That’s alright. I’ll do it.”

He has so many questions and none of them are being answered and they’re pretending he’s not even there. Anger slowly bubbles up, and he grumbles under his breath.

She turns to Keith.

“Keith?”

“Can you stop saying my name? I’m not stupid, I know what it is. Just tell me what the heck is going on. Where’s my dad? He’s supposed to be here by now.”

The adults flinch, but he’s too keyed up to notice.

“Do you know what passing away means?”

The question is so offside that it melts his anger into brittle confusion.

He huffs a confused breath, not noticing the hitch in their throats or the stiffness of their hunched shoulders.

“Yeah? It’s just a stupid and nicer way of saying that someone died. Why the heck are you —” he darts a glance at Mr Watts, who looks so pale not even the white ceiling could rival him.

Swivels to the armchair. 

Ms Lee can’t even look at him.

“No,” horrified. 

The sun’s touching the horizon now. It’s late. Too late. His dad would normally be rolling up by now, but —

“No, no nonono _no_ —”

There’s never been a worse sunset in his life.

The world tilts, fractures, and _burns_.

He wishes he had taken the seat.

* * *

“Hey there, Keith.”

Keith looks up, unfocused. It’s usually the self-proclaimed athletes talking to him, but only to ask for homework answers they weren’t bothered to complete. He never says yes, unless there’s money involved.

It’s Lance. 

“It’s Lance.” 

Funnily enough, for a jock who plays soccer and captains the swimming team, he’s never asked before. Keith suspects that the only reason that Lance even bothered to strike up conversation yesterday night was so he’d think Keith would like him more and therefore ask for answers.

Figures. 

Any minute now —

Lance’s perpetual smile pulls down, a reflection of yesterday. Keith is sure he’s meant to return the greeting now to be polite, but he doesn’t exactly give any fucks to guys who want to be friendly just so they can get something from him.

Lance opens his mouth.

“We met in the mart yesterday? Y’know, when you were checking me out. Wait, shit, not in that way, I mean like, you were my cashier and shit, sorry.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, and smothers a smile. His inside self throws a shoe at outside him. Stop it, you. You’re meant to be unimpressed right now.

Embarrassed, Lance’s hands clutch around open air beside him.

“Um. You do remember, right?”

He looks so strangely earnest, like it means more than it’s supposed to.

“Yes, Lance. I was there.”

At Keith’s sudden entry into the conversation, Lance’s whole expression ripples, and then, like it’s even possible (if it was, Keith definitely wouldn’t have known), his positivity dials up to levels previously undiscovered by humankind.

“Okay, phew, cos I was kind of scared that you would forget and everything for some reason, but I guess I had nothing to worry about.”

Keith notes that Lance is a rambler, even when he’s not talking to the teacher. For some reason, it’s not annoying. It’s actually kind of… bearable?

“What do you want?” he asks instead.

“Huh? Did I need to want something to get to talk to you?”

“So you’re not here for homework answers? I’m not giving them out, by the way,” he adds, steel-toothed.

“The fuck? Why would I need your answers? I guess they’d be correct since you’re top of class and all, but why would I —”

“Never mind. Don’t worry about it. Why are you talking to me then?”

Lance furrows his eyebrows, high arches bending.

“Because… I want to? Because that’s what people do? Talk to each other?”

“Oh.”

Okay, it’s Keith’s turn to feel embarrassed. What? Don’t look at him (no seriously, he begs, don’t look at him, he blushes really fucking easily and it’s _horrible_ ).

“Yeah, _oh_ , you doofus. You’re kinda wack, dude. But hey,” Lance’s eyes smile upwards more and catch the classroom’s fluorescent lights; they’re a particular light shade of brown that’s unavoidably gorgeous, “you’re not as scary as people say you are.”

“Thanks?”

He knows people say the stupidest shit about him, but hearing Lance not buy into it is kinda relieving. It’s refreshing, to say the least.

Lance rolls his eyes in good humour, or maybe he’s just laughing at Keith’s sudden awkwardness.

The bell rings, shrill and echoing.

“Right,” Lance says, straightening up.

“Catch you later!”

He walks off _again_ before Keith can even say anything, a simple “see ya” or whatever. Why is he so socially incompetent? Actually, scratch that, why is Lance so quick?

Must be the long legs, Keith muses, and opens up his sketchbook for another round of scribbles.

Hmm. Maybe he’ll draw faces today. And if they bear a resemblance to a certain someone, no one has to know. Keith doesn’t even know or realise himself, already marking out brown eyes and sharp noses in graphite.

* * *

At the shack, time drags on and on. Most of the time, Keith can’t stand it, but then he feels guilty for abandoning the only home he’s ever had. It feels like leaving his father alone. If you could call whatever the fuck pile of bolts, old wood and hidden dust a home. It didn’t use to be this way — before, laughter like summer lightning used to rumble through the walls, and every day the sun would come and smile for the both of them.

There’s only him now.

He curses the physics question in front of him and decides to have a long-needed break. After the five, _long_ , dedicated minutes that he spent pondering over what the hell the answer was.

Slamming the creaky door shut behind him, Keith sinks into the shabby chair he pulled from a garage sale to bask in the evening air. Well — it’s morning by now.

Sometimes, he tries to sleep, but usually to no avail, waking up feeling like he’s on fire because of ancient nightmares and all. It’s the only time he’s afforded the luxury of studying, so there’s that too.

The night is still, and the stars are out. Flecks of diamond across an onyx tapestry. He feels safe that they’re so far away from him, because he couldn’t touch them even if he could fly. They don’t know him: they don’t know how he wakes up or doesn’t, feeling restless and heavy, how he tried taping up the windows because he pretended that the heat was just too much and that it wasn’t the sunlight that made him think of gentle and long-gone silhouettes by the sill. They don’t know him like the sun, and every night he is thankful for it.

Keith picks up the book beside him.

Classic fairy tales again. 

It’s easy for him to slip into the pages again, feel himself unravel under the well-thumbed pages of the book. Here, he is the builder, the constructor of golden worlds and fate and happy endings. He is the prince in love. There is no room for a coward in these stories, and he enjoys it that way.

By the time dawn arrives, punctual and heady, there is only the bookmarked book of stories sitting on the porch.

* * *

The engine purrs steadily underneath him as he cuts a familiar path to the school’s parking lot. He parks the motorcycle in the slim space that he’s unofficially reserved, seeing as no one else seems to own a motorcycle out here, and pulls off the red helmet, hair already sweaty from the early morning heat.

As he pulls his duffel bag out of the compartment, he notices Lance and his friends standing at the steps to the entrance. He’s laughing, like he usually is. There’s the short strawberry-blonde one, a guy with an orange headband who looks like he could either punch or hug the lights out of you, and Allura. Keith only knows the name of silver-haired Allura since she’s popular with the student body and captains the small but growing girls’ kickboxing club. 

Lance catches his eye, and he blinks, forgetting that he was staring. Keith tightens his grip on the bag as Lance waves, and manages to gain his compass enough to jerkily nod back. Satisfied and surely amused by his reaction, Lance curls a secret smile that Keith will probably never be able to decipher and walks up the stairs through the doors.

The last through the doors, Allura turns around briefly to look at him inquisitively. The two (are they close friends? A couple?) share something for sure — an aura like sirens who leave you light-headed afterwards, who have enough shared secrets to make you feel like you’re being stared through the soul if you ever want to talk to them.

Keith doesn’t know what to make of what is surely a dress down, something psychoanalytic working in Allura’s eyes.

He looks away to focus on the bits of cracked gravel on the sidewalk and lets out a breath when he finds Allura gone, deciding to finally walk up.

He doesn’t see Lance until his afternoon English class, but Keith doesn’t need a literature lesson to subconsciously wax poetic about the curled hairs brushing Lance’s nape or that disarming smirk; a slither of silver on a backdrop of warm tones.

Their conversations continue as normal (wow, the fact that this is a norm is _kinda_ fucking with Keith’s antisocial ass), Keith getting out his sketchbook as Lance leans further and further into his personal space, talking about nothing and everything.

“— and then there he goes, nosediving straight into the smoking concrete. It was _hot_ — like Angelina Jolie levels of hot, or Taehyung, I don’t mind, take your pick, but anyways, my cousin flat out broke his nose with a dash of scorching gravel burn. It looks cool now, I’ll tell you that, but back, then — Jesus, he was a sight, and _not_ a good one if you know what I mean.”

Lance waggles his eyebrows at Keith and he couldn’t take his eyes off him even if he tried. 

He’s wearing the navy crew neck this time, collared shirt peeking out. It’s tucked. His scuffed sneakers kick back and forth from the desk he’s sitting on, a carefree rhythm. Now when did Keith start paying so much attention to people’s fashion choices? He wears the same four shirts in repeat or whatever smells the least gross so his fashion opinions are absolutely irrelevant, and yet here he is, perusing Lance’s wardrobe like a middle-aged wife browsing a 50s catalogue.

Keith doesn’t know whether to feel proud that he’s establishing some sense of what real people wear, or pity that he’s memorising the details so well.

“Anyways, have you had any gruesome incidents? Come on, with all those rumours flying around they must have come from _something_ , right?” 

He’s definitely eyeing the scar Keith has on his cheek, a stretch of discolouring that only serves to remind Keith of his recklessness, something he still isn’t rid of. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But Keith’s not going to tell him about that — he’s not sure Lance would want to be friends with him if he did, and something in him tells him that he has to hold onto _this_. It’s special, it argues, and he’s always been a worshipper of instinct, so he zips his mouth and rows down a different stream from the river of… incidents in his life.

“When I was eight, my dad and I went on a camping trip in the forest. It was a big national park, I don't remember which." 

Lance nods, enraptured. Keith’s not so sure what to do with the spotlight, so he concentrates his stare at the simple silver chain around Lance’s neck.

“I was really obsessed with dinosaurs at the time, and thought that if I wandered far enough and was super quiet, I would eventually get to see one.”

Keith huffs a laugh, memories of an eight-year-old him with narrowed eyes, avidly trying not to step on any sticks lest it alerted the nearby dinosaurs of his presence rushing back to him. At the half-laugh, or maybe it’s wishful thinking, Lance smiles and tilts his head.

“My dad did nothing to discourage it either. He probably thought it was funny as shit. I walked really far — much further than what my dad expected me to go, and it was getting real dark. Anyways, it got to the point where I finally realised that I might not actually see a dinosaur, but by then it was too late. I started calling for my dad and everything, but it didn’t work. After like — two hours or something, I got super tired and paranoid and decided to crash at the stump of this tree.”

“Wait, what, you just — fucking decided to sleep? Right there? In the middle of fucking nowhere? What about the dinosaurs? Weren’t you scared that they were, I don’t know, going to eat you or something?”

“They wouldn’t have eaten me! I was going to be their greatest friend. At least, that’s what I thought was going to happen.”

“I can’t even bully you for that, what the hell, that’s actually really cute.” 

Keith flushes and lets his hair fall further to hide his quickly reddening face.

“Right — so I was asleep at this tree stump, and then out of the blue, I just hear this,” Keith tries to gruff up his voice as much as possible, “Hey kid, are you lost or somethin’ — and I just — wait, why are you laughing?”

Lance is off the desk, quite literally grabbing at the edge of Keith’s table like it’s the last manicured grip onto his sanity. His shrieks of laughter are loud enough to get the nearby kids to glance, but they quickly get back to their own conversations.

“Holy fucking shit! Oh my god, that was the funniest voice I’ve ever heard — Keith, what the hell? Was that — was that your fucking ranger impression? It literally sounds like if Coran was constipated from the disgusting cafeteria food — oh my god, hold on, my stomach hurts —” he’s still cackling and it trembles his frame — which is still crouched by Keith’s desk.

“If Coran was — Lance, what the fuck, why would you say something like that? That’s so nasty, and I _don’t_ sound like that!”

“Cos it’s true, and you _absolutely_ do, man.”

Keith rolls his eyes and remembers to actually finish his story. When was the last time he got to recount a story that was his own? Genuinely as well, nothing like what his foster parents used to try, hoping to eke a story out of him like he was a puzzle they were trying to solve. It’s so refreshing. Keith can’t hold back his crinkle of laughter.

Lance peers up at him, hair fluffed up and eyes sparkling. 

Keith feels his stomach swoop.

“Well, once I heard that, and stop the fucking puppy eyes, I’m not doing the voice again, I bolted up and just straight up swung at the guy. I think I hit his side or something, I couldn’t see because it was dark as hell, but then I was running and right afterwards I tripped on this rock and got the worst scratch on my knee. The ranger took me back to my dad, so it was all good in the end.” 

“Okay, I know I say this a lot, but like. Holy shit.” 

He shrugs his shoulders, not knowing how to respond.

Lance whistles — “All right, good to know that if I somehow became white and got into a horror movie, I’m taking you with me, Mr swing-first-ask-questions-later.” 

“Shut up,” Keith replies, but it’s clear as day that he wants anything _but_ Lance to stop.

“Can I see it sometime?”

“The scar?”

“No, your homework answers — of course I mean the scar!”

“Oh. Uh, maybe later.”

“Sure,” Lance agrees, easy as that.

Talking feels like flying. Keith wonders where they’ll land.


	2. ii. rekindle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith starts making his way back.

“Come sit with my friends and me at lunch,” Lance suggests casually, tossing an apple back and forth between his hands. Keith watches it like a pendulum.

“Huh?”

“Lunch? With me and my buddies?” 

Ok. It’s not like Keith _doesn’t_ want to sit with them. It’s just — he’s not sure how to interact with any of them; the only reason that he even managed to broker this friendship between him and Lance is that Lance was born a natural social butterfly, no cocoon stage needed, and Keith? Well, let’s just say he hasn’t even hatched yet, to put it kindly.

“Um. Sure, I guess.”

God, why’d he say yes? Is he stupid or is he stupid? 

Lance flashes him a bright smile, muttering a thanks. 

Ah. That’s why he agreed.

Taking his leave, Lance walks back to his seat, where Allura expectedly leans forward to chat with the golden-eyed boy.

He doesn’t dare look back, feeling the prickly hawk-like stare of Allura’s glimmering eyes, jewel sharp and probably ready to cut right into his neck. He guesses that this recent _development_ might make his girlfriend suspicious and all, but he doesn’t think he deserves the unnerving glares all the time.

 _Well_ , Keith shrugs internally. Guess he’ll either be torn to shreds at lunch and die a violent death on the cafeteria floor or somehow manage to get Allura to stop thinking that he’s going to like… kidnap Lance or like — beat him up, whatever rumour she knows better.

Lunch rolls around much too quickly for his liking, but when have things ever gone right in the history of things to go?

Once he gets his serving of… whatever meat it is and the _oh so healthy_ and _definitely_ not near rotten piece of fruit onto his plate, he finds Lance’s brown hair and Allura’s silver braids easily enough.

Keith approaches the table, suddenly realising just how bad of a decision this was. He doesn’t know how to talk to Lance’s friends! And they’re definitely going to interrogate him, or whatever it is that close friend groups do.

Maybe he can just, like — power walk out? If he’s quick enough, he can —

“Hey, Keith!”

Shit.

He turns around, pretending that he wasn’t just trying to get out of sitting with them. Pidge’s (is that their name?) smug smirk says otherwise.

Shuffling to the table, he grips onto his scrappy plate, anxious.

“Uh. Hi. I’m Keith.”

All of them look amused, and honestly, can one of them make an expression that’s vaguely even positive for him? 

Hunk warmly extends his welcome and offers him a seat that he reluctantly takes, and Pidge just bluntly goes “yeah, we know who you are,” to the sudden shushing and hissing of Lance from the other side of the table.

“It’s nice to meet you, Keith,” comes a polished voice, and wow, some people look even more beautiful up close. Her makeup is razor-sharp and perfect, purple eyeliner flaring out with white eyeshadow on her lids. She’s got on a skull choker, a black corset, and fishnets on, which is typical for her goth style. He’s like, gay as hell, but Allura’s beauty is almost otherworldly. Just like her boyfr—

“You too,” he says, a little forcefully, almost choking on the bite of food.

“So,” Pidge asks, giving him no reprieve, “what do you do for fun? There’s no way you’re vandalising a wall every other day, is there?”

“Uh, no. I’ve only done that once.”

“Wait, really?” comes Hunk’s voice, seemingly surprised.

“Yeah. It was in middle school.” 

“Why’d you do it?” Lance looks delighted that he’s learning more about Keith’s ‘edgy and dangerous rebellions’, even if this is one of the more tame ones he’s hearing.

Keith’s mouth pinches at the corner, the ugly but ultimately satisfying memory trickling down his spine.

“Guy called me a slur so I spray painted dicks all over his house.”

“Totally worth it though, right?” Allura’s looking at him, and is that excitement glinting in her eyes? 

“Yeah, actually,” he bewilderedly replies, remembering the drip of white and yellow chemical on his palms, sinking into the brick and his grubby nails like his revenge didn’t want to depart from him. “Completely worth it. His parents thought he did it,” he recounts, finding a lit spark of old smugness reignites thickly into his voice.

His hands were stained for a fortnight afterwards, but no one bothered to ask him about his gloves, because even though they knew he did it, they were scared he’d go over like a summoned ghost and spray paint dicks on their perfect walls too. The boy fumed of course, but he was grounded and his parents didn’t believe him. Sweet, dark, satisfaction for sure.

Allura laughs, loud and boisterous, and Keith watches as Lance grasps onto Allura’s arm so casually, leaning on her as he falls into a bout of contagious laughter. His cheek presses to her shoulder. Keith looks away.

“Allura, tell him about the time you — you spray painted that dick Griffin’s car!”

“Oh my god, now there’s two of them,” Hunk sarcastically groans, and now Keith is lost. Two of who? Surely not him and Allura, right? There’s no way that they’re even similar. Or so he thought.

“Wait, _you_ did that?” 

The whole school had, of course, assumed that their resident ‘bad boy’ had been the one to completely spray paint the car in a putrid dark brown colour — windows and all, and he’d done nothing to dissuade them because he just didn’t care anymore, but the fact that it was stellar bright Allura? 

Now that’s a tailspin for sure.

She rolls her eyes lightheartedly and grins.

“Yes, don’t look so surprised! I don’t dress like this just for fun. He was, sorry, let me correct that, _is_ a total asshole, but I did knock it down a couple of notches when I redecorated his ride,” she exclaims, and Keith shoots a shocked look at Lance, mouthing ‘redecorated’, which Lance returns by laughing even harder.

“What did he even _do_ to get you to do that?” Keith asks.

“Said some stupid homophobic shit about Acxa and her group after she flat out rejected him. Any person with eyes knows she’s a lesbian, I have no idea why he even attempted it in the first place. Griffin was such a pussy that he didn’t even mention the rainbow dick I painted on the car as well. I put a _lot_ of effort into it,” she sniffs exaggeratedly.

Keith, who is kind of in awe and rapidly rearranging all known info on Allura to make way for Complete Badass in her inventory, looks straight at Lance.

“Lance, why the fuck would you take me into a horror story? Why aren’t you taking Allura?”

At that, Allura nudges Lance’s shoulder with her own and smirks.

Lance raises a chip towards Keith like he’s going to toast it. “Bold of you to assume I’m not taking the both of you,” and crunches into the chip loudly to make a statement.

“Okay, besides vandalising, you have to have some hobbies,” Allura raises a white eyebrow.

“I spend most of my time working at the mart, so. Not really.”

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Lance imitates a megaphone. “Liar, you just don’t want to say you’re an absolute _nerd_!”

“What — I’m not a nerd!”

“Mmm, sounds like what a nerd would say!”

Animatedly turning around as if to announce that he’s Oprah Winfrey and giving every person a thousand dollars, his eyes twinkle with mischief. “My boy Keith here literally reads _all_ the time, and get this — he studies for fun! Seriously, what the fuck man, are you an alien or something?”

Keith flounders for an answer, because he can’t exactly _deny_ any of it. He enjoys the occasional fantasy novel! Sue him! Studying for fun is a stretch, though, it’s more of a distraction and something to focus on more than anything.

Perking up, Hunk lets out a gasp of surprise. “What books do you read?”

“Mostly fantasy.”

“Huh, I didn’t peg you for a fantasy guy…”

Keith looks down at his black shirt, ripped jeans (not stylistically done, turns out fixing the electricity box in the desert is not a jeans-friendly job), and black boots. His fingerless gloves are holding a fork.

“Wow, I wonder why,” he deadpans, and they all snicker together.

“Oh my god, Keith!” Allura’s stood up and leaning over the table towards Keith, what the heck —

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hiding these brows under all this hair? Holy shit, _please_ let me do your brows and eyes sometime! I can’t let this potential go to waste, I’d never forgive myself,” she cuts herself off to let her hands hover near his face.

Um. What’s happening?

“Can I touch your face please? You can say no, I just want to see your eyes more clearly since this cafeteria light is absolutely sickening,” Allura all but begs, and Keith, once again, glances at Lance to signal for help in big red alarms.

Lance, the dickhead himself is just resting his chin on his palms, like he’s watching a show unveil. No help here, clearly. Shouldn’t he think it’s weird that his girlfriend is all up in another guy’s face? Well. He is gay, and she’s Allura, so he supposes there’s no fear there.

“Uhh.”

“Hey, I’ll back off, sorry for that, I just get super excited whenever I see a great face,” she offers, wincing at her previous outburst.

Great face?

“No, it’s. Fine. You can… see my eyes clearer? If you want?”

Beaming, Allura lightly brushes away his hair and hums in whatever-curious-tone-this-is. “Damn, I’m jealous. You’ve got _hella_ long eyelashes, why the fuck do all the guys get them but never use their power properly?”

“First Sunday of next month?” she asks suddenly, still staring at some space above his eyes.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m so used to my friends coming over that I forget. Are you free on the first Sunday of next month? I really want to try putting some makeup on you, if you don’t mind.”

Sundays are one of the only days he doesn’t have school or a shift to worry about, but it’s not like he was going to be doing anything worthwhile anyway. 

Lance takes his pause as him being caught in the headlights of an onslaught of Allura’s enthusiasm and tries to reassure him. “Trust me, Keith, you’ll look stunning. She’s fantastic at makeup, if you can’t already tell.”

Stunning? 

If he was thinking of going before, knowing what _Lance_ might think of it now… guess he’s going, no choice.

“Yeah — I’m free. I can go.”

“Cool. Give me your phone so I can put my number in it.”

Keith fumbles his phone but just manages to pass it across for her to put it in. If she notices that the only other contacts he has in his list are Kolivan, Acxa, the mechanic, and Lance, she doesn’t mention it.

The bell rings, and damn — is lunch over already?

He feels vaguely… disappointed? 

That’s so strange to think. Usually, all he can think about is leaving, but he’s had fun at lunch this time. He usually just spends this time doing any extra homework or sketching behind the courtyard.

Allura gives it back and pats him on the shoulder. It has the force of a stone — must be all that kickboxing. “I’ll text you the details, yeah?” she shouts, disappearing into the crowd of students.

“Okay?!” he yells back. That wasn’t meant to come out like a question. Yikes.

Lance turns to him, poorly concealing his delight at Keith’s very apparent social ineptitude.

“How was that?”

Keith glares at him. It’s not very threatening, and he’s found them to be getting less effective as time goes on, because unfortunately, Lance is realising he won’t actually murk him or something.

“You knew I was dying, asshole.”

“Yeah, kinda,” Lance says lightly, pretending to look at a spot that’s not actually there on his nails.

Lightheartedly shoving him, they both laugh and head towards their lockers.

“How were my friends?” He poses it lightly, but Keith has been looking closely for long enough. There’s a stiffness to his broad shoulders that speak of sensitivity.

“I liked them,” Keith answers honestly, and watches in relief as Lance almost invisibly sags in relief as well. “Allura was… very enthusiastic. I thought she hated me before,” he admits, thinking about the voracious smile on her face as she loomed over.

Lance barks out a laugh as he retrieves his books.

“What, Allura? There’s no way she would’ve _not_ liked you.”

“I don’t know — she kept glaring at me and shit in the Chemistry classroom! Isn’t that a sign of hatred?”

Under his breath (which he’s been doing a lot of lately, actually), Lance mutters exasperatedly. “Oh my god, I told her not to…”

“What?”

“Nothing, don’t worry. Just — Allura doesn’t hate you. Far from it. She was just being nosy,” he rolls his eyes.

“Uh. Okay.”

“Sit with us next time then?” 

Keith blinks, taking in Lance’s hopeful expression, half-hidden by his binder as he refiles it. The freckles on the bridge of his nose almost look like they’re winking at him, a scatter of wishes some gentle god blew onto him.

“You actually want me to?”

“Pft, of course? Why do you think I asked you in the first place? It wasn’t just to see you almost die, you know.”

“Oh. Sure — I guess.”

“Great!”

Shutting the creaky locker door, Lance looks at him, a fresh breath taken.

“English?”

“Let’s go.”

Keith smiles as they head off on their very short trek to the classroom, only sure of this one constant in his life. Ironically enough — even though Lance is quickly becoming a fixture in his life, a brightening star in his constellation of being — he’s the one that’s also bringing about the most change.

And Keith?

Maybe, for once, he’ll let it happen naturally. Let him float. He’s tired of digging his heels into the dirt, fighting with his teeth bared over any loss of control.

Maybe he’ll still bare his teeth — but this time, it’ll mean he’s smiling.

* * *

There are few things in life as reassuring as the mundane.

Here are the lessons everyone forgets:

No.1: don’t let them slip through. 

No.2: oh, kiddo. I’m sorry. They slipped through, didn’t they? Brush away your tears, and the cobwebs, and the dust. Do not ever forget — the most mundane thing you can hold onto is hope. All you gotta do is leave the light on.

Here is the next mundane thing: I promise you a happy ending.

There will be someone coming. There will be a way back home. There will be a home to find the way back in the first place.

Don’t run away. Be brave.

I’ll hold your hand, 

son.

* * *

Whenever Keith would get lost (and this was a very, _very_ , common occurrence), his dad would wait for him on the porch, sighing goodnaturedly and clicking his tongue when Keith sheepishly managed to find home. Sometimes, it took hours.

His dad was always there.

In the later years, when dad had to pick up more shifts at the station as more and more people moved out of the town, he would leave the porch light on — 

( _"All you gotta do is look for the light. You’ll see it. Don’t worry.”_ )

— and Keith would find his silhouette leaning on the beams instead, incorporeal and calming.

( _"Finally found your way back, kiddo?”_ )

It was like he was there, even if he was actually at work.

When dusk fell and he’d been making too many friends with the red crack of the desert, lost in worlds of dinosaurs and grand stories longer than the span of human (and dinosaur) life, he always knew that if he saw a beacon of light, he was near home. 

He repeated this ritual countless times, counting on the warm ochre of the rusty lantern to guide him back to safety, into the cosy clutches of those wooden walls. The lantern was cracked in an area near the top, a small glass gap that exposed the lightbulb to eager insects.

Naturally, when the day kissed the night hello to watch over the earth, shadows fell, bars of familiar darkness laying on the wooden porch floor. In that one slit, a stream of uninterrupted gold, like a strand of Rapunzel’s hair — glowed across the floor, where the light was stronger and brighter.

Keith traced that wobbly line many a time, watching as it always petered out to a wide road of ochre, gradually blending in with the rest of the light.

Afterwards, when he saw the shack after the ruins, after his father had been taken away to be put in a box in the ground, there was no porch. And there was no lantern.

The remaining wood screamed at him, scars and charred limbs begging him to put them back together again. But he couldn’t, and nobody could either; he knew this well: when fire burns things, even the things you love, it leaves ash. Dust. There is no gold in dust.

To memorialise his father’s firefighting efforts, the town came together to rebuild the shack — a smaller one, of course, there were more important places that funds were needed, which Keith vehemently argued against ( _“that’s not more important than my home!”_ ).

There was a ‘porch’, if it could be called one. It was a wooden slat just wide enough to fit a chair, which is what he put there years later.

But this was not _his_ porch. And if there was no porch, there was no porch light.

So there was no way back home.

For the first few foster families, and he hated most of them, he would ask the same first question to all of them.

“Do you have a porch?”

The first parents that tried to foster him looked at each other before looking back at him.

“Sorry, pal, but we don’t. We live in an apartment. There’s a balcony, though,” the woman said, clearly trying to make up for it.

Keith hesitated.

“I’ve never had a balcony before.”

“Well, it’s kind of like a porch — but it’s up in the air instead.”

“That sounds unsafe.”

“Uh — it’s not. I promise you.”

“It’s like a porch?” Keith repeated, wanting to make sure.

The couple looked at each other, baffled.

To him: “Yes, it is.”

And he was willing to try. But — as it turns out, a balcony is nothing like a porch. It does not matter how many lanterns you hang there — there is too much light from the other apartment windows to help guide him back.

Eventually, Keith gave up on porch lights.

At seventeen, there’s still no way back home.

Keith, stranded still.

* * *

Until.

_Until._

* * *

The air is humid with wafting chlorine and the laziness of teenagers waiting for the race to begin.

On the back of the bleachers, where Allura has tsked at Keith’s lack of sun protection and proceeded to slather him in sunscreen, they sit there, bored and on edge at the same time.

Keith grumbles and wicks the sweat from his brow for the third time in the afternoon.

They’re at the local swimming centre, where the nearby town’s high school swim team has visited for the annual swimming meets. The total school population is just enough to budge onto the bleachers, but luckily, most didn’t bother to attend in the heat.

Also, it’s a weekend, so.

Eventually, his impatience eclipses all anxiousness of talking to Allura even though he knows they’re friends now (at least, he thinks so?).

“When’s it gonna start?”

She purses her lips — this time donning a dark blue in support of their swim team. “Probably fifteen minutes. The team hasn’t come out yet, but I have no idea what’s holding them up.”

He groans, and wishes he had worn something lighter. Why the hell didn’t he just wear a tank top? Keith cusses our past him for picking the blue shirt that Lance had commented a while back on, saying _“it makes your eyes pop”_. 

Nearby, Pidge is being berated by Hunk for sitting on the esky of popsicles that Hunk made for them to enjoy afterwards. 

It’s all very mundane.

The crackly loudspeaker finally comes on after a few minutes, their principal finally making the announcement everyone’s been waiting for. 

Keith sits up.

“Good afternoon, Clark High! Please give a warm welcome to our visitors Johnson-Hill High from just down the road!...” he chuckles at his own joke, and a few polite teachers laugh.

‘Down the road’. As if it didn’t take at least a two-hour road trip being baked alive to get here.

“And now, for the moment we’ve all been waiting for — drumroll please!” — a stampede of excited applause from the rest of the crowd and proud wolf whistles from Allura, who’s stood up to the chagrin of the people behind her.

“Clark High’s highly esteemed swim team! With Lance McClain as our captain, Romelle Arcadia as...”

Right after that, Keith zones out from the overeager announcement and beelines straight to where Lance is the walking out from the gazebo, hand waving to greet the school.

His hair’s wet — probably from the practice laps, and it curls up in a way that’s so satisfying that it pushes at all of the swoon buttons inside Keith’s brain that he didn’t even know existed until this point. Lance’s wetsuit, navy blue and basically skin-tight, glimmers underneath the coarse heat. 

As he makes his way to the podium, Keith eyes Lance’s shoulders meticulously. And, okay, he knew they were broad, but seeing them covered in dark skin-tight material just makes them stand out just that much. Just enough for Keith to lean forward even more, not aware of Allura’s analytic eye from beside him. She’s hiding a smile behind her nails, but he wouldn’t have any idea.

The only thing in his brain is a feedback loop of _shoulders freckles curls gold oh my god he just winked at me what the fu_ — Lance’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at Keith’s surprise of being caught staring, and honestly, how dare he be so, so — effortlessly gorgeous?

Mustering all of the sudden adrenaline inside him to a single sentence, he tries to shout “Good luck!” over the cheering. Keith isn’t sure if he heard it all, and considers immediately sinking into a black hole to rid himself of the sudden impulse, but judging by Lance’s glinting teeth, pearly white as he laughs, he was heard.

The last Keith sees of Lance’s eyes before he pulls on his goggles is the ring of focused forest brown, lightened with the reflection of the calm water beneath him.

The crowd quietens, the more eager students shushing the others still yelling encouragements. 

This race is always the pivotal one, being the hundred-metre freestyle and all — they like to clear the short, sharper championships at the beginning to start the momentum — and to no one’s surprise; it’s also Lance’s special. He jokes about it sometimes, says that people call him the Shark, and Keith didn’t believe him then, but right now he _might_ just catch the fever of it.

“Ready!”

The two swimmers, both captains of their teams, crouch forward, heels lifting in bated breath.

“Set!”

Arms straightening on the podium, corded muscles tensing, eyes steadily focused on the blue. 

Keith looks at Lance and feels the world go silent in the pause, a breath before the storm falls. Or maybe, before the shark senses blood, sharp-toothed and honed to predatory perfection.

The whistle blows — “Go!”

— and they’re off.

Most people would think that when they hit the water, the impact wakes them up. For Lance, it’s absolutely seamless — he’s already woken up before he even stepped foot onto the podium. A perfect arc, like an invisible fin perched on his back, and he stitches himself to the water, gliding through the water like the cleanest running stitch.

There is no noise, except for what one might hear if they tossed a coin into the well to make a wish. Here’s Keith wish — that Lance wins the race.

In a mirage of navy blue and brown, Lance weaves through the water with expertise, and even though he’s wearing a suit, his apparent back muscles come to show; bare their cartilage and fins to the open. Watching them move, Keith swallows around a dry throat. It’s like watching hills rearrange themselves in motions so repetitive and mesmerising that he can’t take his eyes off Lance.

Lance turns in such a streamlined manner at the end of the pool that Keith barely has a chance to blink before Lance is pushing himself off the wall, propelling him metres towards the finish line.

Keith doesn’t even care about where the other captain is — Lance always wins in his books, in the story that he’ll replay in his head when sleep is futile.

Jarringly, Allura ruins his line of thought.

“— good, isn’t he?”

Keith briefly turns to Allura on instinct, before swivelling his head back to Lance.

“Huh?”

Allura smirks, and he’s probably glad he can’t see it.

“Lance. He’s an excellent swimmer, isn’t he?”

Distractedly, Keith mumbles a reply. “He’s more than an excellent swimmer… much more than just that…”

“Really? How so?” Her devious tone falls on deaf ears.

“He’s… gold,” is all that Keith manages to say, and Allura’s eyebrows furrow.

“What?”

No reply. Lance is quickly approaching the wall, in 3, 2, 1 —

Keith launches himself onto his feet and cheers with all the raucousness that middle school Keith would approve of. Lance climbs out of the pool elegantly, and tears off his goggles.

Besides him, Allura clutches his hand tightly, and turning to him in delight, she shouts a victory chant. Like muscle memory, Keith recites the end of the chant with her, drunk on elation, and for once, he feels a prideful conviction to the school that he goes to.

Success is one helluva drug, is all he’ll say.

Lance, being a great sportsman and all, first goes to shake the hand of the other captain, who only looks slightly miserable. Then, turning around in the mid-afternoon sun, in the weekend glow, he dazzles.

He waves to the crowd on the bleachers, and _god,_ whoever decided to create Lance McClain was a goddamn genius. His smile is lightning, and Keith jolts internally every time he sees it, and he can’t get enough of the thrill. The contentment.

And remember what Keith said about making wishes? Turns out that the gods decided to toss in an extra one — Lance finds his face in the crowd, and Keith is so sure of this moment unlike anything else, and he swears on anything remotely holy that Lance’s grin widens, and his whole body seems to be smiling at him. Beaming.

Keith’s got the same dopey look on his face, shooting a flushed grin back, and honestly? He couldn’t care less how he looks, what people might say.

By the time that Lance is allowed to mingle with his friends, after the meet is _finally_ over and Clark High takes their decisive victory, it’s almost sunset. With a flourish, Hunk finally pulls out the popsicles and brandishes one to Lance like it’s made of diamonds, and Lance accepts it with an exaggerated curtsy. 

With the burst of flavour that erupts from the fever of the afternoon with a side of tropical paradise — it might as well be made of the stuff, Keith thinks, and when he’s done with the stick (hint: it didn’t take very long), another popsicle is already being pushed into his hands.

“Thanks — oh, it’s just you,” Keith manages to suppress his _very_ obvious happiness at finally being able to talk to Lance.

“Excuse me? Just me? You’re talking to the all-time winner of the hundred-metre freestyle _and_ a record-breaker,” Lance jokes, ludicrous outrage folding out on his face.

“Eh. I’ve seen better,” Keith lies, in more ways than one, relishing in the second popsicle. It tastes sweeter than the first one for some reason.

Lance sticks his nose high in the air, snooty and hilarious. “And I thought we were close friends… seems like I was wrong,” he cracks his façade to laugh alongside Keith, who can’t hold back his chortles.

The sun dips down, and eventually, they have to go their own ways. Keith directs a misshapen two-finger salute at Lance as he shrugs his helmet on, stepping onto the chrome motorcycle.

It’s satisfying for once, winding his way back through the dust to the shack. Because he has something to return to, he supposes — and it isn’t the shack he’s thinking about.


End file.
